Full of nature, so alive,
that was campsite #25,
bear, squirrels, and deer,
water music, twenty feet near.
Pine sentries on upper banks,
different heights, different ranks.
Guarding hidden fissured hallways,
shale plates of ochre, sienna, greys,
exposing the genesis stratum,
of this hidden kingdom.
This road mapped precipice,
sure to entice,
all who venture,
to this wonderment of nature.

Quiet in the darkness of the forest
Evening - golden mare - tells her story.
Shadows scattered, moon invited over.
Crimson leaves like tired vagrants
Lying on the forest floor and snoring.

I am sitting by the fire listening to music.
Music of the melting in the kettle snow,
Music of the burning days and crackling
Joints of skinny trunks and branches.

Happy solitude of dreaming...

Women only know for sure
Men make
make art
make empires
make monuments
or seduce
or rape

or quietly accept our own ends

The poet's eyes spin counterclockwise, angel chaff,
mercurial orbs. In brightest noon's day, protean on
soft, crooning nights where his mantle is held. Oneiric,
chainless, the green marshes ill with laudanum flakes;
he is a pulse kissed star, beyond Prometheus, perforate
in exhausting sight. The scribe should be a bodiless brew,
unrelenting in pursuit of what no cherub can exactly say.
Or he must inhale the grim shadow of reality's oblong face;
all the hothouse, all the indexed pages, all tea stained smiles